


Business Pleasure

by taormina



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Retail, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Awkward Flirting, First Kiss, Fluff, Groping, Love at First Sight, M/M, bit of smut, gary is inexperienced and adorable, how to lose your new job in three easy steps, kissing in fitting rooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taormina/pseuds/taormina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>90s AU: Mark gets a new job at a clothes store. Gary is his first customer, and Mark single-handedly redefines the definition of customer service.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Business Pleasure

Much to his parents’ frustration, Mark had been putting off looking for a new job as much as he could. He didn’t want to do it. He just didn’t.

Okay, yes, it _would_ be nice to no longer have to depend on his parents to pay for his cassettes and football paraphernalia – indeed, he was still living with his family – but he wasn’t keen on devoting his last remaining shred of free time on _work_ — especially not if he wanted to be selected into a football team again. The future he’d mapped out for himself involved football and pubbing and yet more football; _definitely_ not “work” in the traditional sense of the word.

Still, his parents kept arguing that he needed a backup if something went wrong. With his young, ignorant eyes he couldn’t see how it possibly _could_ , but his drinks at the local pub don’t pay for themselves. So, one day he said to himself, _‘_ What the hell’ and simply decided to apply for a job at the first establishment he laid his eyes on.

This turned out to be a bank. This is not a traditional Take That story, so five minutes later Mark was ushered out of the building because no one believed he had the right credentials.  

The next premise that Mark entered was an independent clothes shop. It was a relatively small store, with a sizable women’s section on the left and a men’s section on the right, and a gridwall panel full of accessories like bags and hats behind the register. The shop smelled vaguely of cleaning solution and wet, wood flooring.

Mark didn’t like it.

The clothes that adorned the garment racks were all right, really. They were a bit too conservative for Mark’s tastes. Too expensive, too; one look at the price tag of an oversized men’s shirt told Mark everything he needed to know, and he was about to leave when someone tapped him on the shoulder: the floor manager. 

The floor manager was a stern-looking young lad who couldn’t have been more than three years Mark’s senior. They started talking about sports and fashion (Mark was wearing a football shirt), and in a miraculous twist of fate Mark was hired on the spot — indeed, in spite of his sketchy résumé.

(Then again, perhaps Mark’s looks had something to do with it: with his dashing smile and a cute, short haircut, he’d make the _perfect_ poster boy for the shop.)

After signing some piece of paper that vaguely resembled a contract (it wasn’t a contract), Mark and his new boss discussed Mark’s tasks and responsibilities now that he was a fully-fledged shop assistant. At this point Mark had more or less stopped listening because he was too excited about the prospect of finally earning some money, but he _did_ faintly process that he’d mostly be asked to greet customers who enter the shop, and give advice and guidance on product selection.

He’d conveniently blocked out the fact that he’d also be cleaning after closing time.

The manager then gave Mark a pile of clothes – his uniform – and told him to change. Mark did so and joined his new colleagues on the shop floor not much later.

The uniform looked terrible.

The clock just having struck nine in the morning, it was still very quiet on the shopping streets of Manchester. There were no customers to greet, so Mark was given the supposedly “very important” task of buttoning up all the blouses in the men’s section. _All of them._ Obviously, this turned out to be extremely dull work.

Mark motivated himself by making a list of things he’d buy from his first paycheck, which made him complete the job very quickly. Mark told his manager he was finished, and coincidentally the shop’s first customer of the day then sauntered in. The manager looked at Mark as though weighing his worth, and told Mark to try to sell the customer something. Something small, like a tie. A shirt, maybe.

Keen to impress, Mark accepted the challenge and started towards his first potential customer with his legs feeling like jelly.

He hoped he wouldn’t be asked any difficult questions.

‘Hi. How are ya?’ Mark said to the customer, happy to deduce that he’d managed to keep his voice steady. They were in the men’s section, in front of a large garment rack full of baggy shirts made of what looked like expensive material. His manager was watching him closely. ‘D’you need anything?’

‘Oh. Um, hello.’ The customer – a young male – shook his head quickly and minutely as though he’d just awoken from a dream. He was fingering one of the shirts with a frown on his face, like he was trying to determine whether the quality of the garment would survive a visit to the launderette. He looked Mark up and down, and Mark’s stomach twisted. His eyes were _very_ pretty.  ‘ _Kram_. Nice name, that.’

Mark started. ‘Wha’?’

The Customer pointed at Mark’s name tag wordlessly. To Mark’s horror, the tag was upside down. Mark turned away from the preying eyes of his customer and his employer and quickly re-adjusted it.

(This also gave The Customer a chance to look at Mark’s arse; Mark’s new work uniform may have been awful, but at least his arse looked all right.)

While Mark was making himself more presentable (he hadn’t tucked in his shirt into his trousers either, and his tie was askew), he took the opportunity to sneak in a few glances at his customer in a full-length mirror. Try to deduce what kind of brands he might be into. Determine his style.

That _is_ what sales assistants did, yeah?

His customer must’ve been about the same age as him. Older, maybe. A bit taller, but not too tall. Less lean and less tanned than the guys Mark usually went for, but still healthy-looking. Strong-looking. To top it all off, he had bleach blonde hair, which made his grayish green eyes stand out superbly.

Handsome was the word that was forming in Mark’s head. Not the name of a particular brand of style, but _handsome_.

Very, very, very handsome.

Mark felt himself grinning. If meeting blonde hotties was one of the few perks of this job, he might start enjoying it yet.

For the time being, we’ll start referring to the blonde customer as Blonde Hottie.

Mark caught the eye of his employer in the mirror, who was gesticulating at him wildly, and he had to remind himself to stay professional. He was working in a shop now. He couldn’t fancy his clients.

_Client_. That made it sound so wrong.

Mark faced Blonde Hottie again. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Having no experience in retail whatsoever, he had no idea what to do next. Should he … make up a special offer on the spot? Ask this guy for his size? Show him the shop’s latest range of, er, – Mark tried to picture the brochure that his employer had shown him before – _sneakers_? _Did_ they sell sneakers?

_Help_.

He bit his nails nervously. Another mistake: his employer dragged an imaginary line across his throat, and Mark hid his hands behind his back.

‘So, erm, I’m here to buy clothes,’ said Blonde Hottie finally. His voice sounded smooth, like running your hand over velvet. He was blushing furiously, which Mark found rather strange; it was not hot inside the shop.

Mark parked the thought that this customer might be blushing because of _him_ for the time being.

‘ _Are_ ya? In a clothes shop?’ Mark said in jest. He could see the corner of Blonde Hottie’s mouth twitch. ‘I think you might need to give us a bit more info than that, you know.’ Mark’s eyes shifted to his manager, who was looking more pleased than he had all morning. ‘ _Sir_.’

Blonde Hottie sighed. ‘I’m just not very fashion conscious, me.’ He gestured at himself, as though that explained everything.

His outfit _was_ badly put together, Mark thought: it was a mismatch of looks that had had gone out of style years ago. He was clearly a man who knew nothing about fashion, like he’d gone through his undoubtedly tiny wardrobe that morning blindfolded. Even his bag looked thirty years old.

‘I think you look awright, really,’ Mark lied, scratching the back of his head. He didn’t know what else to tell him other than the inappropriate and possibly career-ending _You’d probably look better naked_ that Mark had to try hard to get out of his mind. ‘So, er, what’d’ya need clothes for, then? Sir?’

Feeling satisfied, his manager focused his attention on something else.   

Blonde Hottie scratched his right arm awkwardly. ‘Erm, I'm meeting this guy tonight,’ he said flatly. Mark half hoped he was going to add something else to this cliffhanger of a statement, but Blonde Hottie simply closed his mouth; whoever he was meeting, he didn’t want to talk about it.

Mark really hoped he wasn't referring to his boyfriend.

‘Right.’ Desperate to keep this customer close, Mark looked around the shop for inspiration. He hadn't really taken the time to digest the large variety of clothes that was on offer, and the abundance of choices overwhelmed him. The leather jacket in the bargain section would suit Blonde Hottie very much, he thought. Then again, perhaps his manager would appreciate the sale of a top-end item more.

He had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

 ‘So, your outfit, erm,’ said Mark, straining his brain for an intelligent question to keep the conversation going, ‘Business or pleasure?’

_Please don't say pleasure please don't say please please don't say pleasure_

Blonde Hottie shrugged. ‘Bit of both, to be honest.’

_Not_ what Mark had expected.

‘Bit of both,’ Mark mused, glancing at the clothes around him. His mind went blank trying to come up with a set of garments that could be defined by two such contrasting words. ‘Er, how ‘bout I just get you some  stuff and you, er, have a look at what suits you or not?’ Is that what shop assistants generally did? He wished he had paid more attention to his manager that morning. Mark went on, ‘It don't matter if … You know, if you don't like any of it, then …’

Blonde Hottie smiled at him reassuringly, and Mark melted. ‘You’re the expert here, mate; I think I’d be safe to trust your judgment.’

Mark stood there gawping at Blonde Hottie for a while until he remembered that he was being paid for this shit. He apologized profusely, left, and returned three minutes later with an uncoordinated pile of clothes of about two feet high. It was a very comical sight, but Blonde Hottie had the curtsey to turn his laugh into a cough effortlessly.    

It then occurred to Mark that he hadn't asked Blonde Hottie about his budget. He immediately went back to gather clothes that were more affordably priced, but Blonde Hottie stopped him _by grabbing his elbow oh fuck_ and assured him that ‘money isn't an issue.’ Mark found this _very_ suspicious, but he ignored that thought: he escorted Blonde Hottie to the fitting rooms, of which there were three.

When they got there, Mark bluntly handed Blonde Hottie the pile of clothes. A T-shirt fell on the floor, but Mark was too distracted by Blonde Hottie’s fingers to give a shit. ‘Just, er, give us a shout if you need anything,’ he added.

_He should leave now. He should definitely leave now and see if someone else needs his help_ , Mark thought.

But he didn’t.

Blonde Hottie hesitated. He looked very out of place with the clothes still in his hands. ‘Er, could you, er, stay? I … I need someone to give me a heads up when … _if_ I look bloody awful.’ He looked away shyly. ‘If you're not too busy, that is.’

‘Sure,’ said Mark. He didn't see why that would be a problem; it’s not like his manager was looking for him, anyway.

Besides, it meant he could get to know this guy a little bit better.

Blonde Hottie nodded at him appreciatively and closed the fitting room door. Upon the door being locked, Mark exhaled as though  he’d been holding his breath for ten minutes, and finally allowed the grin that he had so cleverly suppressed to transform his features. He couldn’t believe his luck. His first day, and to meet a guy like that…! 

‘You enjoying it, this job?’ said Blonde Hottie after a while. He sounded like he genuinely cared for an answer.

‘It’s only me first day,’ said Mark, his eyes averted from the door even though he knew perfectly well that he couldn’t see a bloody thing. He was still grinning. He could hear a pair of trousers being unzipped, and Mark’s brain was flooded with inappropriately filthy images. He swallowed. ‘I, er, I was gonna apply at a post at our local bank, you know, but that didn’t really work out, so … so that’s why I’m here.’ He shrugged. ‘Tis awright, really. Me mum will be proud I’ve finally found somethin’, anyway.’

‘You know what, I think you’re doing a pretty good job so far to be honest,’ said Blonde Hottie.

Mark’s grin only got wider, and for a second he forgot that his customer couldn’t see him.

‘You still there, Mark?’ Blonde Hottie said after the silence went on for too long.

Mark started. ‘Oh, yeah, I was just … Yeah. Thanks.’ Another pause. ‘So, er, this man you're meeting,’ said Mark without inflection, feeling now was probably the best time to bring it up. He was going to pose it as a question, but the words didn’t quite come out that way.

Mark was deeply concerned that Blonde Hottie would tell him that he was meeting his boyfriend. Or worse. If he did, then Mark would probably lose interest; he’d dated a lot of guys over the years, but other people’s boyfriends were a definite no-no. He just didn’t roll that way.

‘Oh, right, he's this owner of a Manchester casting and modeling agency,’ Blonde Hottie said casually. He didn’t sound like he was lying; it would be too elaborate a lie for that. ‘Wants to meet me, he does. Might become my manager and everything. Not bad, eh?’

Mark released the breath that he didn't know he was holding. Not a boyfriend, then. ‘You're a … model?’ He racked his brain trying to figure out what acting and modeling agencies did. Mark was once approached by some agency himself after he won a smiling competition in Oldham many moons ago, but his parents didn’t approve of it at the time; he _was_ quite young then.

With that voice of his, Blonde Hottie could be a voice actor for radio. Mark added, ‘Actor?’

Blonde Hottie chuckled. Mark could hear him try on the leather jacket he'd brought — and take it off again immediately. Shame. ‘Couldn’t act me way out of a paper bag, me. I sing, have done since I was young, really. I just thought, if I get a manager I might be able to get a record deal.’ He sounded excited, and Mark found himself inching closer to the fitting room door so he wouldn’t miss a single word or breath. ‘You know, I could get me songs out there.’ A pause. ‘I've – I've made this tape with stuff I've done. Ballads I wrote when I was young and all that. If this guy likes it, then … yeah.’

There was a comfortable silence in which Blonde Hottie tried on something else. Mark got the impression that he hadn't told many people where he was going tonight.

Mark ran his fingers through his hair. ‘So, er, you wanna become famous and everything?’

‘You know what, I’d absolutely _love_ that,’ said Blonde Hottie. The enthusiasm in his voice made Mark’s cheeks grow hot. ‘Imagine that, first person from Frodsham on the cover of Smash Hits.’

Mark did so; the images that his brain conjured up weren’t unsatisfactory.

‘Does the singer from Frodsham have a stage name?’ Mark asked.

‘Er, just Gary, actually.’

‘“Just Gary?”’ Mark frowned. ‘As opposed to … “Simply Gary?”’

‘Funny, that.’ He laughed. ‘No, I meant _Gary_. Gary Barlow.’

‘“Gary Barlow,”’ Mark echoed, trying out the name on his tongue. He didn't think it was a brilliant stage name, _bless_ , but for a potential crush? Yeah, it would do nicely. _Gary Barlow._

Mark scratched the back of his head. Not being an expert on singing, he didn’t really know what to say next. A good-natured act of well-wishing would have to do. ‘Well, I don't know nothing about singing, but you seem like a good guy, and you're very handsome, so …’

Mark heard something hit the floor hard, followed by a groan. Mark had to press his lips together to stop himself from laughing. Clearly clumsy Gary from Frodsham wasn’t used to people complimenting him on his looks.

If Mark got his way this morning, being called ‘handsome’ would be the least of Gary’s worries.

‘Um, thanks, ’came Gary's voice, shaky and nervous and _adorable_. ‘You're quite hot yourself. Er, handsome. Jesus,’ he added under his breath.  

‘Are you gonna be this nervous tonight?’ said Mark casually. He was testing Gary now.

A pause. Mark felt certain he could hear a button fall to the floor and roll under the door.

Gary’s voice sounded skittish. ‘I – I don’t wanna kiss the guy from the agency, so, er, no.’

Mark bit his lip unconsciously. This was much easier than he had expected.

_Good_.

What followed was another silence, which gave Mark the opportunity to think about Gary. He liked him. _A lot_. He was intrigued by his ambitions, and the fact that he was so nervous and clueless made him endearingly attractive.

The fact that he'd probably be able to give Mark an orgasm by merely whispering into his ear helped considerably, too.

It wasn’t just that, though; there was something about Gary that Mark couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something … familiar.

‘Er, Mark, mate?’ It was Gary. He sounded even more nervous than he had earlier. ‘I, er, need some help putting this bleedin' tie on. Would you, er … Would you mind?’

A ripple of desire coursed through Mark's body. If his previous chance meetings with total strangers were anything to go by, he knew exactly where this was going. _Not a problem, Sir. Whatever you need, Sir. Mark Owen, employee of the month, at your service._

Gary unlocked the door, and Mark was led inside. He closed the door behind him firmly.

Mark was somewhat disappointed to find out that Gary was still fully clothed, but he wasn't complaining: dressed in a black pair of trousers that was _probably_ a size too small for him, and a simple buttoned-up dress shirt underneath an oversized red jacket, Gary looked much better than he had when he came in.

Mark had to beat the urge to wolf-whistle.

‘What'd you think?’ said Gary, gesturing at himself shyly. His hair looked ruffled and messy.

‘Get rid of the jacket,’ said Mark, more to his own convenience than Gary's, and he felt a thrill in his stomach when Gary obeyed him and threw the jacket on the floor. It nearly made him ask Gary to take off everything else. He wondered if Gary would obey him then, too. (Still, it didn't occur to Mark that he should probably not allow his customers to treat his merchandise like that.) ‘Much better. Now, let's see what you look like in a tie.’

‘Probably not as good as you,’ said Gary, his voice no more than a whisper. His face had flushed the same colour as the jacket he'd just taken off.

Mark smirked. ‘Are you flirting with me _again_ , Gary from Frodsham?’

‘Wouldn't have asked you in here if I wasn't,’ he mumbled, and he shoved his tie into Mark’s hands.

Mark said nothing, and worked his magic. Truth be told, he wasn't very good with ties himself — it had taken him three times to get _his_ right this morning. The fact that he was now in such close proximity to Gary wasn't helping either – he could actually _smell_ his aftershave –, and for the first time that day Gary was making him nervous as well as horny.

He brushed Gary's neck with the tips of his fingertips, and Gary took a sharp intake of breath.

_Not long now._

Mark pulled down the narrow end of the tie gently, and moved the knot a little too far up. Gary swallowed, and licked his lips unconsciously.

‘Shit, that's a bit too tight, innit?’ said Mark, admiring his handiwork. He began to loosen the tie with his nimble fingers, but Gary had already leaned forward and kissed him.

K i s s e d  h i m 

Mark’s response was instantaneous; his arousal skyrocketing, he pulled Gary closer by tugging at his tie. Their kiss deepened, and Mark lost himself to a plethora of stimuli: Gary's lips, soft and wet (Gary, it turned out, was a very good kisser: the kiss was just the right amounts of gentle and _hot_ – so hot); Gary's moans; his aftershave, filling Mark’s head with sinful images of taking Gary from behind with that awful tie still wrapped around his neck.

He knew he shouldn't think about Gary like that yet, but _bloody hell_.

He needed more.

Mark got rid of Gary’s tie and started to unbutton his shirt. Gary gasped against Mark’s cheek in response, breaking off the kiss. His face had flushed a scarlet red. ‘I’ve – Christ, I don’t usually …’

Another button.

The feeling of Gary’s breath against his neck was making Mark’s skin tingle.

‘ _I_ do,’ said Mark, and he pulled Gary in for another kiss.

The kiss was gentler than the first, like they were trying to figure each other out before they dared take it to the next step. The fitting room was silent apart from the soft sounds of skin against skin, the cacophony of chattering and ringing phones on the shop floor miles away. A moan or sweet nothing would break the comfortable cocoon that they'd so effortlessly built around themselves.

Normally, Mark would have stuck his tongue down this guy's throat by now. Palmed his cock through the fabric his trousers.

He’d probably already have gone down on his knees like a good boy should.

Chance meetings always took place like that in one sequence or another, but Mark didn't feel like it today.

_Yet._

Something about Gary made him want to cherish every moment with him, even though they'd just met and were now snogging in a fitting room. It’s like Gary was this overwhelming déjà-vu, this faint whiff of autumn leaves and petrichor on a hot summer day that reminded him of days gone past, and Mark had to try to figure out when and where he’d first smelled it.

Still, Gary would have to take the shop’s clothes off _at some point_.

Mark unbuttoned another button, this time exposing Gary's chest.

Another button, another piece of flesh.

He didn't want to hurry it. He wanted to take his time getting to know Gary’s body, but _God_ , it was getting harder and harder to constrain himself.

Another button. Faint hints of a happy trail.

This shirt had a lot of buttons.

The final button, and the shirt slid off Gary's shoulders effortlessly and landed on the floor in a pathetic puddle. Gary nearly stepped on it, and Mark hoped the shirt wasn't too expensive. He’d probably have to button it up again tonight.

They continued kissing, and Mark caught a glimpse of him and Gary in one of the fitting room mirrors in the corner of his eye. They looked perfect together; Gary, half-naked and flushed and just that little bit taller, and Mark, guiding them both to excellence.

Every intention to take things slow disappeared along with every chance of Mark keeping his job.

Mark’s reflection moved his hand down Gary's back slowly. They rested at Gary's arse, and he squeezed. Gary responded with a delicious groan, and Mark's world started spinning. He wanted to have that effect on him again. And again. Minutes turned into seconds and seconds turned into nothingness, and Mark suddenly found himself slipping his hands down the back of Gary's trousers. Squeezing. Digging his nails into that soft skin. Gary moaned again, and Mark discovered with wicked pleasure that Gary was already hard. He'd definitely picked the wrong size trousers.

‘Must be one helluva man you're meetin’,’ said Mark, grinning against Gary's neck as he moved his hand to the front of Gary's trousers. He was hard and wet and oh — so — big.

‘He’s nowhere near as interesting as you, mate,’ said Gary, followed by a low moan that was spurred on by Mark’s ministrations. He sounded extremely nervous, his hands hovering awkwardly over Mark’s hips like he was too scared to touch him.

It suddenly occurred to Mark that Gary may not have been with a man before.

The notion should have made Mark act gentler, slower, _God, he knew_ , but instead he felt the urge to mark Gary with his teeth and his nails and make him his possession. Own him. Make him Gary’s first.

There was a loud _squeak_ , and Mark came crashing back to Earth.

It was unmistakably the sound of someone trying to open the fitting room door.

Two knocks. ‘Mark, what’re ya doing in there?’

It was his manager. He sounded pissed.

Mark started, and he removed his hands from Gary’s boxers instantly. His cheeks were burning, and he suddenly realized what a dangerous situation he’d put himself in. His job wasn’t the only thing that was at stake here. ‘I’m – I’m just helping this customer out here – won’t be a minute,’ he said in a voice that he did not recognize.

Gary, meanwhile, had slumped against one of the mirrors, too stunned to speak. He looked too bare now, too vulnerable.

‘I need ya here _now_ ,’ said his manager. ‘Someone’s dog decided to piss all over the bloody floor.’ A pause. ‘One minute, or I’m ‘aving you work in the stockroom for the rest of the week, mate.’ Mark could hear him storm off, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He rested his forehead against the door while he tried to get his breathing back to normal.

He had no choice but to obey. He knew that. _God_ , he knew.

He didn’t want to leave Gary like this, so exposed and rejected and beautiful, that familiar glow of arousal on his cheeks, but it wasn’t in Mark’s nature to turn down a request for help. He hoped it wasn’t in Gary’s, either.

Mark mouthed ‘sorry’, kissed Gary on the cheek, and went out of the door without another word.

When Mark finally finished the job of cleaning the shop floor, Gary had already left. He hadn't bought anything. His manager gave him a royal bollocking for not having tried hard enough with the blonde customer, and Mark felt the butterflies in his stomach being crushed by a heavy weight. Never mind his manager’s accusations— what _really_ hurt was that Mark had felt absolutely certain that he and Gary had a connection. Something unearthly binding them together like an asteroid on a collision course to Earth.

Clearly Gary hadn't felt it.

Normally, Mark would be okay with this. He'd had liaisons with lads like Gary before. Flings. Blind dates that didn't work out. Quick shags in telephone booths. Thing is though, Gary _wasn't_ like those lads; he was different, and certainly not the type to hook up with the next best guy. The fact that he had allowed himself to drop his guard for Mark like that should _mean_ something.  

Something.

But now Gary was gone, and he'd never see him again. Except perhaps on the cover of Smash Hits.

Time went by too slowly or too quickly, Mark didn't know, and he found himself taking on arduous task after task just so he could distract himself. He cleaned the shop floor yet again. Attached price tags to dresses. (He was so distracted that he had to do everything over.) Accidentally sold an exclusive jumper for a bargain price.

Three hours later, he was vaguely aware of a lady with a foreign accent asking him if they had this or that shirt in red. Painful memories of how silly Gary had looked in that red jacket that morning flashed before Mark’s eyes, and all he could see was _him_. Just him. Even the way she fumbled with one of the shirts reminded Mark of him — those large, trembling hands he had no idea what to do with.  

The lady said she wanted to fit the shirt, and Mark led her to the fitting room. Like when he started this job, his legs felt like jelly. He didn’t want to be here anymore.

Then he spotted a cassette on the fitting room floor.

Gary's.

Mark subtly picked up the cassette, mumbled something about having to help one of his colleagues, and left the lady to her own devices.

He locked himself up in the stockroom. It smelled of mothballs.

Mark’s heart started racing as he turned the cassette over and over in his hand. It said ‘GB’ on the front, with a short list of song names in tiny lettering underneath. It must be the tape Gary was talking about, Mark thought, the one with songs Gary had written.

If Gary didn't have this cassette with him this evening, he might not be so lucky. He might not get the gig.

_Shit_.

Mark was still sad about Gary for just leaving like that, but he didn't want him to miss out on his opportunity to make it big.

There must be a way to find out where he was headed, there must be. He'd just hop on the next bus and try to find him … All he needed was a clue …

He opened the cassette case and a small piece of paper fell out. His heart beating so fast that he was afraid it might explode, Mark picked up the piece of paper and read it. The message was in scribbled handwriting, like Gary had written it in a hurry:

_Mark – am postponing the meeting with the guy from the agency till tmrw. Need to figure things out about you and I... You've made me feel like I'm on cloud bloody nine mate… Will come round to pick up my cassette so pls don't get sacked... If I still feel butterflies when I see you we can finish what we started… As long as I don't miss my appointment that is!!_ (At this, Mark laughed.)

_GB_

_Ps. Feel free to listen to track 2, it's a beauty._

Mark sighed in relief. Clearly Gary had felt _it_ too.

+++

Sometimes, songs can transport you back to long-forgotten memories. Transcend you to a state of utter bliss. When Mark listened to Gary’s cassette that evening (yes, he was able to keep his job, thanks for asking), Mark had this peculiar feeling that he’d heard the songs somewhere before. But he hadn’t, and he couldn’t have, so instead Gary’s songs filled the hole in his heart that Mark didn’t know he had.

The mix tape ended, and Mark wondered if Gary would like to try on their new range of underpants tomorrow.

 


End file.
